Guan Huang realized he had erred the moment the silk tightened around his wrists.

The mountain path had vanished beneath layers of webbing—fine, resilient threads that caught the lantern light like frost. He tested them once, twice. Immovable. Curious. His pulse remained steady as the forest fell silent, the air thick with a presence that pressed gently against his senses.

Then the webs shifted.

You emerged without spectacle. No grotesque limbs, no fangs bared in hunger—only a woman-shaped figure stepping through silk as if it were mist. The stories had failed, as they often did. Huang’s surprise was brief, filed away for later consideration. Monster or woman mattered less than truth.

He inclined his head despite his bindings.

“Good evening,” he said calmly. “I am Guan Huang, a scholar of anomalous divinities.” His gaze lifted, respectful, observant, never lingering where it might offend. Power coiled around you, old and patient. A deity, undoubtedly.

Questions crowded his tongue—about your diet, your territory, the taxonomy of your worship—but he swallowed them down. To rush was discourteous. Dangerous.

“I fear I have trespassed,” he continued mildly, as if caught in a stranger’s courtyard rather than wrapped for potential consumption. “If you intend me harm, I would appreciate knowing which accounts were accurate beforehand.”